Feb '04[Home]
Poetry
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Feb '04[Home] Poetry |
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The Blue Shelters Come to Grief Under the Bridge The Gist of It Peter Robinson Saibara Tomer Inbar The Dolls' Quarter ~ In the City of Pale Deer and Resin Scent Miho Nonako Oni Kobe Hotel Bryan Thao Worra Yo No Bi or Beauty in Utility Jay Chollick |
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| . | . | . | The Blue Shelters 1 For a breath of air we were following the thread of a route you took through cherry trees in winter; there was nothing else for it, out we had to go. Out along raised walkways among enormous spaces, their vastnesses absorbing us, we'd seen as much as anyone, needing a breath of air. 2 Flanked by towering blocks and the gulfs of a rail embankment, by the labyrinthine alleyways, drained moats and broad canals, we were streaked with networks of interlaced, ringed branches. All around, illumination blinking in the twilight, we saw through expanses of accumulated plate-glass, through unlit fronts, their windows reflective of more night. 3 And there was this thread of talk between us, the multiplied reflections we followed out past blue sheet-shelters built around park benches. The time's too late for their occupants; they've slipped through other networks to a walkway's prospects of the capital with gnarled cherry trees in winter. Here their last possessions are neatly in their places. No resentment, or so it seems, the remnants of their self-esteem lie here in these blue shacks. 4 Nothing else for it; in our talk were stock and share war rumours murmured round old Edo; nothing for it with temperatures dropping, snow forecast for the small hours — and nobody needing to get out more. Come to Grief Those hills of the eastern skyline are a shrouded corpse in late dawn mist, a corpse outleant — no, not the year's, the century's, two millennia's, I'm dreaming this because it's yours, here once more at breakfast time with one more dawn above those hills; and my daughter, seeing them, comments on brave watery sunshine glistening in rivulets over rooftops, plate-glass windows, down to the riverbanks' first cars, to kiosks, shrines, convenience stores… and now she says she wants to draw its whole array, and that's a promise. With all this newness, how my daughter gazes at the world you left, at the Kamo's murky water flowing away, where a faint sun glints, flowing like promises come to grief; and dreaming this because it's yours, that shrouded corpse in late dawn mist, I ask myself what'll support her, at least, in its disappointments. Under the Bridge 'Look to the distance' was our guide's advice as he punted us past the usual bottles, the cans and rubbish bobbing near. A white heron flying with head tucked in accompanied us as it followed the canal's scummed margin past willows quivering at the slightest breeze. Look to distance, as he said, for the beauty in weakened eyes. There you saw the occasional fisherman, patient to trick a trout or eel from murky waters. And glancing back, you were tricked yourself a moment. With features in profile, her piled hair combed, with angular grips, and a pained averted look, there she was: the eternal young girl waiting for her lover at a window tricked your eye. She was painted in colour, rather faded now, on the white warehouse wall. But nobody wanted their snapshot taken in a flash from the hide-like cabin on one bank, two professional cameras at oblique angles, set to catch pleasure craft passing up or down — a photo of this floating world where merry-makers smile an arrival, a departure, needing to be back before nightfall in crammed cities. And though this loop of time's not ours, it can't be you shared no love because it ended, as if not living because bound to die. Caught for an instant in a round traffic mirror, there we are, still, our punt's prow just gone under a bridge, the boatman's white band tied about his forehead, and rented straw hats visiting that village — ourselves a brief disturbance to reflection, then gone between water and sky. The Gist of It Down Kawabatadori a line of weeping willows in chilly dawn's diffused sunlight droops over the Kamo; white heron, squadroned for their fly-past, just skim that skin of water. The willows find you strayed in a novel of sensation and shiver at the bits of story, shiver at how you tried to protect your reputation threatening suicide. Too proud! Too proud, they said, you wouldn't take the loss of self-esteem, bought land, a home you'd planned to build, the loss of house, of status or husband lying down. * Now snow lies dusted on chilled earth traced with criss-cross footprints — and then a memory in this light returns with how you told of ruined executives desperate enough to leap off Kiyomizu Temple's platform on that hillside — any where, any where out of the world! So driven to extremity yourself by threat and counter-threat you took it out on all of us, a months-old foetus in your womb: another life you couldn't let catch its breath, it starved with you for want of what the heart wants. Under strings of New Year lanterns gleaming red and white at entryways of late night bars, cars' rear- and headlight beams bring back a sunrise at Tsu beach, two 'watchers of the trickling gore' dying 'waves that lapped the shore' exactly a decade ago. Poor shadow, now I know at least the gist of it and in this cold dawn light would fathom how someone I taught, someone who taught me 'See you later', taught me 'Anywhere you like' or how to ask for a glass of water, would be driven to that extremity — your long game pulled up short. Peter Robinson has published many volumes of poetry, as well as books of literary criticism and translations. In March 2003, Carcanet Press published his Selected Poems. He lives in Sendai, Japan, with his wife and two daughters. ~ . ~ Saibara Tomer Inbar Saibara (literally, "urge/horse/song") are a strange animal. Part bawdy peasant folk song, part aristocratic court poem, Saibara appear to be the lyrics of early folk songs adapted to the music and aesthetics of Chinese T'ang musical style as interpreted by the Heian Court. Ichijo Kanera's Ryojinguansho (completed in about 1477), which contains the first critical look at Saibara, posits that they were sung by subjects bringing tribute to the capital from the various regions of the country and thus represent what they brought with them from the outer regions to the capital. Later commentators dispute this and posit that they are simply Waka poems put to T'ang music. Saibara first make their appearance in Court literature in the mid-ninth century and become standardized some time during the Engi era (901-923). The songs rely heavily on repetition and are punctuated throughout with various sound and rhythm markers (which are presented in italics). In all, there are 61 songs, divided into two sections reflecting the musical scale in which they were performed: ritsu and ryo. These two scales are said to represent the principles of Yin and Yang respectively. —TI (#7 the running spring) by the running spring gather cuttings of small reeds and from them make a cocoon from which to spin thread ~ . (#9 a young willow) the strands of a green willow twist as a string of thread ya oke as the bush warbler oke ya as the hat the bush warbler weaves oke ya is a hat of plum blossoms ya ~ . (# 13 the gate of my house) the man walking back and forth leisurely before the gate of my house has not come with any intentions he seems to have come only with intentions the man without intentions walking back and forth leisurely with intentions only has he come with intentions only has he come ~ . (#17 a comb for her hair) seventeen combs for (her) hair ten and seven there were until an officer from Takeku who took from those combs the morning he came then took again at evening the same he took from those combs and now there are none the combs from her hair are none ~ . (#23 the bird has sung) the bird has sung chokasa and Sakuramaru took his thing (he took his thing) and pushed it in (he pushed it in) and came again (he came again) and stayed until (he stayed until) her belly was filled until with child it filled ~ . (#24 the old mice) at Nishidera the old mice do the young mice do chew on the robes they chew on (his) garments chew too chew on (his) garments they do and should we tell the priest tell the priest and should we tell the priest tell the priest ~ . (#48 Ohomiya) to the west of Ohomiya on a small road where the Ayame grows wild sa an Ayame gives birth to a child tarari yarin tanari ~ . (#54 drink some sake) drink some sake get drunk drinking some tafutokoriso and certainly come for a visit staggering stumbling come for a visit come for a visit come for a visit ~ . (#55 a frog with no strength) (you are) a frog with no strength a frog with no strength an earthworm with no bones an earthworm with no bones Tomer Inbar is a practicing attorney. His poetry has appeared in many literary journals, and he is the former editor of the literary journal, Camellia. He holds an MA in East Asian Literature from Cornell University and currently lives in Washington, D.C. ~ . ~ The Dolls' Quarter Miho Nonako It is strange how people mistake my hyacinth For an imitation. The sound of rain orphans My flower; its petals recurve like false lashes In my grey room. You will never be able to see This star as I saw it. You don't understand: It is like the heart of a heartless flower, says Nadja, quite removed from her growing insanity I can only admire. Your neck smells of rain; When the world is wet, I smell distant things As if they were part of my body all this time. The artist next door makes glass eyes that blink At a marble's click, puts a lilac flame in each iris. ~ . In the City of Pale Deer and Resin Scent Miho Nonako I am uneasy whenever a book opens By itself on a windless day, and outside the window, All clouds have lost their roots. It is forbidden to pin a butterfly on the wall At one's desire. Already, its wings have mapped Most of the streets in the city Where the beasts and people walk Slow-pulsed and free of shadows. When I awake, you are dozing on and off At the Weather Station in a different city In the time I need you most, you cast an anthelion on some sky With your fingers. My fear won't ever wake you, And from one world to the other, Butterflies carry ill omens to forecast Another white rainbow between the two cities. Oni Bryan Thao Worra My demons have names I try to keep to myself A scimitar smile as I walk with them in Spring A snarl and a python handshake that wants to slither away with you II Am I a dog in Demon State Or a demon in Dog City? Easy to say, difficult to believe I can show you the way in either case III I miss the cherry blossoms of DC My little memories rattling like the Metro through Farragut Station IV Rest, Mishima, Rest your beautiful skull In the field by Ono no Komachi— dream amid the leaves and stone walls Let the wind shout of forgotten Yamato for you. It's been 30 years already. You're becoming a cartoon while the girl is an idle monk's mocking brush stroke. VI Could Sojobo have slain Shuteri Doji? Unworthy speculation! Your pen should be remembering the slaughter of Khoua Her's tiny waifs or the death of Tong Kue the drowned of the Mekong or even poor Vincent Chin struggling for his last breath beneath Detroit pipes devoid of pity VI No matter what I shout there isn't a stone on earth that will shatter today. ~ . Kobe Hotel Bryan Thao Worra Poor Saito, sitting in Kobe in that run-down hotel. After everything, your $13 book is going for 99 cents. It was the sex and politics that did you in, they'll say. I ran into our friend Shuntaro, who, between verses, had been spending his time translating Snoopy for the residents of Tokyo. Writing from a scratched up table in O'Gara's I wonder what he'll do with his free time Now that Sparky is gone. The streets of St. Paul are cluttered with plastic Peanuts pals by people who suddenly found a renewed appreciation for their memories of warm puppies Woodstock and good men. There should be a haiku in there somewhere but sometimes, a haiku can't solve everything. ~ . ~ Yo No Bi Jay Chollick Unvarnished, deeply Japanese, a plainsong truth- three words define the secret strength of pots of carefully confected artifacts: a bowl; a knife, where at the other end of steel, a hand fits perfect fusion with its handle; or in the spout or anything that's steeped in spare utility, a trowel- spade- this chair that sits judicious in its height, each entity defined by use, starts simple and with the artisan: his sober eye; the hand that measures, that evaluates, that fastens to the rough edge of a human need and from this congruence form appears and with it color- or appropriate, its absent tang or will it be the speckling of unearthly heat or painted sparingly with gilt or with the berry have its surface drenched how deep and deeply Japanese Yo No Bi is but more than this this beauty in utility, how movingly the ancient needs are met. |